


Red Handed

by asonyplaystation



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Blood Kink, Eddie jerks off thinking about how Richie murdered someone, Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Murder Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, but also theyre in love and its about the deep bond of trust between them, that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asonyplaystation/pseuds/asonyplaystation
Summary: He dreamed of things he’d seen; he dreamed about Richie. Richie, breaking through the glass of the cabinet and grabbing the axe. Richie, with eyes dark with murderous intent. Richie, bringing the axe down on a man’s skull with enough force to kill him in one blow. Richie, standing with his chest heaving and his arms and shirt splattered with blood.Eddie wakes up in the middle of the night, head filled with images of Richie killing a man.---Eddie thinks it's really hot that Richie could kill a guy but would never hurt him.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 249





	Red Handed

When everything was done and the seven of them had cleaned themselves in the quarry like children again, they all returned to the hotel for one last night. They would work out what to do in the morning, but for that moment they all needed rest, all of them moving back to their rooms with bone-shattering exhaustion they’d never felt before. Eddie had just enough energy to shower before he crawled into bed, falling asleep as soon as he was lying down, unable to even fully cover himself with the blanket.

He dreamed of things he’d seen; he dreamed about Richie. Richie, breaking through the glass of the cabinet and grabbing the axe. Richie, with eyes dark with murderous intent. Richie, bringing the axe down on a man’s skull with enough force to kill him in one blow. Richie, standing with his chest heaving and his arms and shirt splattered with blood. 

Eddie wakes up in the middle of the night, head filled with images of Richie killing a man, and his cock achingly hard in his shorts. 

Eddie knows that Richie would never hurt him. It is something he has absolutely no doubts about; it would never happen the same way that Richie would never swim the Pacific Ocean, run for president, or go to Mars. The idea of asking ‘is Richie dangerous? Would he hurt me?’ felt so absurd it was like a joke. Richie was a tall guy, sure, a big guy, but he wasn’t a  _ threat _ . There wasn’t a person in the world that Eddie felt safer with than Richie Tozier.

But Richie  _ is _ dangerous. Not to Eddie, not to the Losers, but to other people. Richie not only  _ could _ , but  _ would _ kill people for his friends. Eddie had seen it with his own eyes; he had seen the dark determination in blue eyes, the face set in total acceptance of what needed to be done. At the time, Eddie’s heart had been pounding in his chest, but he took it as adrenaline, as fear. Now, he thinks maybe it was something else.

The combination of two truths -- that Richie is a murderer who can kill for the people he loved, and that he would never,  _ ever _ hurt Eddie -- make Eddie’s breath catch in his throat. He is already painfully aware of how attracted he is to Richie, how much he wants to feel those big hands and strong arms around him, kiss that neck, sink his fingernails into the broad back, but this is different. This goes deeper than just looking at a man and knowing you want him; it comes from knowing Richie, the core part of it all that they have a bond that runs so strongly.

They have an unbreakable bond and now Eddie is picturing Richie in the dark, with that vengeful look on his face again, the axe in his hand. The light is so low that the blood on his hands and arms looks black, the spots of light shimmering on the edges of it, outlining Richie in white. In Eddie’s mind’s eye, Richie stands in a puddle of the blood he has shed and looks over his shoulder with that darkness in him, all black and white and red.

Eddie is so hard that he is already leaking into shorts. He palms himself outside of his underwear, the cloth rough where he’s most sensitive. 

In his fantasy, Richie turns to him, red and black as sin, and takes Eddie's face in his hand. He leaves a red handprint on pale skin, bright and shining wetly. Blood drips in a fine line down Eddie's jaw when Richie leans in to kiss him. It would be nice to kiss long, slow and indulgent, their mouths hot and wet, taste all of each other. But there's more that Eddie wants right now; he is too worked up to spend the time being sweet and easy. This needs to be hard, to be rough. Sweet Richie he knows all too well, it's the scary side that he craves. The side most people don't know exists. In life, Eddie clutches his cock in his hand and starts rubbing himself slowly, mind flashing the same images over and over; Richie standing, covered in blood and the muscles of Richie's back going taut as he raises the axe high and then brings it down, the sound of a skull splitting open wet and hot. 

Eddie pulls his underwear off and kicks it aside. There is hand cream in his dresser; he uses that to make it smoother as he pumps his cock into his hand. 

The dream of Richie bends Eddie over a table -- or a counter or a bed, the specifics don't matter -- and drags his pants down with a sharp tug. He shoves Eddie's feet wide, a hand holding down the back of his head, fingers tight in his hair. Richie pulls Eddie's hair hard enough to hurt, forming a fist at the back of his head, pushing his head down against the table top. It's enough that Eddie can feel every ounce of Richie's strength but also, crucially, his restraint. How much Richie  _ holds back _ for him. 

The finger that pushes inside him is slick with blood; in reality, Eddie knows that blood would make for horrible lubricant, it's sticky and congeals and dries flakey and disgusting. But this isn't reality, it's a fantasy, and it's the fantasy of getting fucked in a way that is so filthy and dangerous Eddie would never try it in real life. The idea of it is what thrills him, how impossible and  _ dirty  _ it is, the allure of the risk. In the fantasy, Richie pushes a finger inside Eddie, almost massaging him open, rocking in and out with a smooth, steady pace. 

Eddie is fingering himself now; spread-eagled on the bed he pushes his fingers deep inside, twisting his arm around to try and hit the angle just right. It's not as good when it's just him. He longs for Richie's strong hands, large, square hands with long fingers. Hands like that were perfect to fuck a guy open. Imagine how good it would feel to have two inside you -- imagine how much better it'll be to have his thick fucking cock inside you. 

Dream Richie coaxes in two fingers, leans low over Eddie. Blood on his face and chest are warm on Eddie's back; when Eddie moans from how good it feels to be opened up, Richie tugs harder on his hair, whispers dirty into his ear. Eddie's no good at dirty talk, but he gets Richie would be. All he can think is what's running through his mind at that moment. In the dream he moans like a bitch in heat;  _ God I want your cock, I want you inside me, I want you to fuck me until I bleed. _

There's no guilt in the fantasy. No fear. In reality he has always been plagued by fear and shame, but in his dreams he knows what he wants and allows himself to have it. In his fantasies, he has the confidence and the strength to let himself get fucked in two. It takes bravery to be vulnerable, but he can do that for Richie. He trusts Richie.

In real life he bites down on the pillow to stop himself groaning Richie's name, knowing the man himself is actually sleeping in the room next to his. What he wouldn't give for Richie to just appear in his doorway right now and find him like this, completely ready to be screwed into the mattress. Feels wrong to just jump Richie now though, when they've been through so much and there's so much left to do. For now, Eddie just has the memory of Richie's arm in motion as he brings down the axe, and the idea of that memory fucking him apart with blood and force.

Dream Richie is hard and pulls his cock from his clothes. He takes his fingers out and leaves Eddie open, empty, desperate, all so he can grip Eddie by the hips and grind his cock against him, not entering him, only teasing him with the feel of it against his ass. 

_ Do you want it? _

_ So bad. So badly. Fuck me, Richie _ .

Because Richie had that restraint, had that little edge where he could hurt people. But just enough. Just the right people. He can string Eddie out just to the point where Eddie is arching his back, pushing against him in desperation, aching to be fucked, begging for it. (Eddie bites down harder on the pillow as he jacks off, whimpering as he feels himself getting closer to finishing, dick throbbing in his hand). Richie drags it out to the point where it's savage, almost cruel, the tension as he presses just the tip against Eddie's hole enough to make Eddie scream -- 

Then Richie thrusts into him  _ hard _ , makes him moan and push back. It hurts but it’s  _ good _ , and he feels full at last, like he’s finally having a need sated. Richie fucks him with a force like the last pieces of restraint holding him back are snapping; he wants Eddie too badly to be able to hold himself back, but that’s fine because Eddie wants him  _ so badly,  _ is happy for Richie to use him because he still trusts that it’ll never go too far. 

The same images in his mind. Richie swings the axe down, the violent shock and force of the kill, the blood on his shirt, the blood on his hands, the look of dark, intense hatred in his eyes. Richie leans over him, spreading him wide, fucks him raw and dirty. The kind of thing he would never have dared to even think about before, too afraid of what it said about him, not able to imagine someone he would ever trust that much. 

He rolls over on the bed, grinding into the mattress, breathless with desperation, never quite getting what he wants but so fucking hungry for it. He’s so close, panting so hard it hurts, not able to be subtle about it as he flushes all over. 

Now he imagines Richie holding him down, Richie’s own breathing shaky as he draws close to finishing. He fucks Eddie with hard, sharp thrusts; he hits him deep inside, in all the ways Eddie can’t touch himself as the real Eddie writhes on his bed and whines hungrily, starving for touch. He is so close he can almost taste it, his body pulled tighter than a violin string as he seeks out that last tiny thing to push him over the edge.

In the fantasy, Richie holds him so tightly he will leave bruises on the muscle of Eddie’s hips and thighs as he cums inside, Eddie’s name on his lips as he finishes, spoken with desperation and love. He leaves bloody handprints and bruises all over Eddie’s body, a clear trail of his whereabouts, marking Eddie out like a scarlet A. When he pulls out, blood and cum leak down Eddie’s shaking legs. 

Richie is all he can think about; the axe comes down, the muscles of Richie’s back and arms stretched tight and moving in sync, the spray of blood, the turn, the look at him, the dark eyes, the axe comes down, the spray of blood, the heat as Eddie cums in his own hand with a cry that he can’t hold back on. 

He is shivering when he’s done, lying on his bed, chest heaving as he stares wide-eyed at the ceiling. He needs to go clean up but he has to wait for his heart to stop beating so fast that he feels like he’s going to pass out. He can’t think for a long moment, only lie on the sheets drenched in sweat. 

Eventually he pulls himself up off the bed, arms weak and legs shaky as he walks over to the bathroom to wash his hands and maybe take another shower. He has gotten as far as washing his hands when there is a knock at the door. 

Eddie freezes rigid in place for a half-second before running to throw on a pair of pyjama pants. He doesn’t bother with a shirt, just rushes over to the door in his desperation to prove that everything is totally fine, I wasn’t doing anything, don’t worry about it, how are you actually?

It’s Richie at the door, in the flesh, wearing a T-shirt that clings to the swell of his pecs and the curve of his biceps like all of his fucking shirts seem to, and an old pair of sweatpants, hair sleep-messy and cute. He looks like he just woke up. All the blood has drained from Eddie’s face.

“Hey,” Richie says.

“Hi,” Eddie croaks.

“You shouted, I was wondering if you were ok,” Richie says, his voice filled with concern, face set in a protective determination that makes Eddie’s heart flutter. 

“Yeah. As long as you’re here to keep me safe,” Eddie says. Richie smiles at him softly.

“Ah, you’re the one who saved me, Eds,” Richie says. 


End file.
